


A Light in the Clouds

by earthtostiles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:52:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthtostiles/pseuds/earthtostiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were a lot of things Adrian Harris didn’t like to think about, so he didn't (or at least he told himself he didn’t.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Light in the Clouds

There was a lot Adrian Harris didn’t like to think about.

He didn’t like to think about his time in the army, didn’t like to think about all the blood and pain and unnecessary loss of life. He didn’t like to think about the explosives he helped make, the chemicals he helped mix. He especially didn’t like to think about all the friends he lost.

Even more than his military experiences, he didn’t like to think about his first love. Unlike the army, those memories were a lot harder to bury, they liked to pop up and surround him when he least expected it. They surrounded him in screams, the smell of gasoline and the press of lips to his.

There were a lot of things Adrian Harris didn’t like to think about, so he didn’t (or at least he told himself he didn’t.)

* * *

 He absolutely did not think of the army, of his annoying and rude bunkmate whenever Stilinski walked into his class, a swing in his step and his mouth running a million miles a minute. He did not flash back to a warm night, a bottle of cheap tequila and a game of true or dare whenever the kid laughed, sharp and piercing. The laugh was not a haunting echo of things he did not think about.

He wasn’t harsh on the kid because he threatened to bring feelings to the surface that would overwhelm and drown him. He wasn’t harsh on him because he annoyed him. And he definitely wasn’t harsh on him because he saw something in him, something he’d only seen once before, and he wanted to make sure he lived up to it.

For all that Stilinski was twitchy, for all that he was a loudmouth who laughed too hard and joked around too much, he was smart. Harris couldn’t deny that, despite the fact that he hummed to himself during tests and tapped his pencil and shifted around loudly every 5 minutes, he always did well. And Harris didn’t feel himself twitch at every hum, tap, and shift and he wasn’t reminded of the past every friday. (Harris liked structure, he liked schedules, he gave a test every friday like clockwork.)

Harris was used to it, not thinking about the past, or at least he was used to ignoring the usual memories that having Stilinski in his fifth period invoked. He was used to it, he could deal with it, he _had_ dealt with it. For every weekday of the school year so far, he stood at the front of his class and dealt with it the best he could and then Stiles walked in with his face bruised.

He was babbling and laughing away the concerned remarks, joking about how it made him look tough. Harris froze, he stood there staring at the scrapes and bruises marking pale skin and he did not think about the past. He did not think about a body slamming down behind him, about his annoying friend laughing away the concern for his wounds. He did not think about the medics warning that his friend should take it easy, did not think about how bruised ribs made it really hard to run.

He did not think about about exactly how hard it was to run while holding someone else up, did not think about about falling. He did not think about about about how warm the blood was as it seeped out of his best friend. He did not think about how he only had two hands but there was more than two holes that needed to be covered. He did not think about how his best friend died in his arms, how he died laughing and coughing up blood. He did not think about the blood that coated his hands, his shirt, his pants. He didn’t.

The laugh snapped him out of it, as sharp and as startling as the first day he heard it. He went on with his lesson and he did not think about how fragile people are, about how fleeting life is.

* * *

Harris spent his summer away from the ghost that roamed Beacon Hills High. He did not think about the box hidden in the closet, the one filled with pictures and useless lumps of metal. He spent his summer doing things he’d rather not think about, Harris always did fall for the beautiful women with the dangerous smiles and intelligence to match.

She did not remind him of his past, of his first, at least not on the outside. She was day where past was night (they were the same in every way but the superficial and not many saw beyond the superficial, sometimes not even him.)

Then summer was over and he had to go back to not thinking, back to not seeing a ghost for an hour a day, day after day.

The hair startled him, he had braced himself for babbling, for twitching, for that startling laugh, and for a buzz cut. Somehow, the difference hit him harder than if everything had stayed the same. He did not think about hair hitting the floor that first day, about the playful jab that annoying guy made about the shape of his head. He did not think about the anger that had filled him when he found him laying in the bunk next to his, and he definitely did not think about cradling the buzzed head of his best friend, blood coating his hands.

* * *

 You could only not think about things for so long and Harris had never been that good at not thinking. Tied to to that tree his voice hoarse and his limbs aching, he let himself think.

He thought about a friendship born in hatred and buried in blood. He thought about blonde hair and a wicked smile. He thought about the newspaper articles filled with pictures of flames. He thought about the new teacher with a sweet smile but not so sweet insides.

He  thought about his life, thought about how he spent his time pretending not to think about ghosts. He thought about his role in his own demise until all he saw was black and his thoughts fell into nothingness.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is derived from "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" by Neutral Milk Hotel.  
> Thanks to Ked for helping me with the title.  
> Also thanks to Bry for starting the conversation that led to this.  
> This is un-betaed so yeah.


End file.
